I find myself going through my daily routine, engulfed by my own thoughts about what it feels like to be “happy”. I remember being happy. Happy was me at Warped Tour, swaying to the beat of some newly discovered bands and realizing how much I adored the sound of something new gracing my ears. Happy was when I sat on the beach with my mom, coffee in hand and gnat-bitten to death, awaiting the arrival of a new sunrise on the shore. Happy was when I heard one of my favorite songs on the radio like I had millions of times before, but this time, managed to belt out all the words as loud as I could with the windows down, completely shamelessly. I know “happy”. Happy has always been a good friend of mine, but has slowly drifted from my grasp as of late. He’s become someone who sends a card on only the holidays signed with just his name, someone who pops in and says “hello” but never actually takes the time to truly absorb my answers, to question the strange intonations of my responses. He’s someone that has mistakenly forgotten to return my calls, tragically missed my texts, and has found new places and people to foster his sparks. Happiness has become an acquaintance, even more so a stranger. As of late.
The question is, am I happy? Am I happy now, at this very moment in time and my life?
I feel like my questioning confirms my answer enough.